It began as a good day. The sun was just peeking over the
buildings, and already I could feel the cool breeze of
early fall as it made its way through the house. Just the
day before, I had learned that I had received honors for my
performance in my internal medicine clerkship, one of the
most important and difficult clinical requirements in
medical school. Months of hard work had finally paid off.
My last major hurdle was the surgery clerkship; after that,
the worst of medical school would be over. Just last month,
I had obtained a degree in public health, ensuring that
when I graduated from medical school I would become one of
those professionals whose name is followed by an alphabet
soup of letters. Imagine that! A status symbol of knowledge
and hard work, those letters would entitle me to respect
from my patients and colleagues.

My surgery clerkship was starting today. I got out of bed,
ate a quick breakfast, and donned my short white coat,
which displayed my lowly student status to all those in the
field of medicine. I left the house, gave a high five to my
buddy two doors down, and dashed to the corner to catch my
bus. I was on my way.

At the hospital, as I sat among my fellow students waiting
for our ambulatory surgery assignments, we talked anxiously
about the long days and nights that we expected over the
next couple of months. After what seemed like an eternity,
the surgery course director arrived. I was paired up with
another student, a fellow from Kansas, to work in the
outpatient urology clinic.

Brad was tall and clean-cut, with blue eyes and blond hair
— the quintessential all-American male. He had
confided in me more than once that he had never known or
interacted with any African Americans before he entered
medical school. Brad came from a very small town where
everyone knew one another. His high school and college
experiences had taken place among people with similar
backgrounds, interests, and phenotypic makeup. In fact, he
often told the story of how, just before he left for
medical school, his town had welcomed its first Asian, a
Chinese-American woman from San Francisco. She had recently
married his uncle and had become the yardstick by which all
other Asians were measured. Brad recounted with glee how
the townsfolk nicknamed her "Connie Chung," after the news
personality, much to her chagrin.

Brad's father and grandfather were alumni of our medical
school, and he was following a long family tradition. My
father was an herbalist and a naturopath, a career he had
learned from his father in Africa and then brought with him
to the United States. He had a day job as an economist in
order to sustain his family and practiced his brand of
medicine on the side.

As I stood there thinking about my upcoming partnership
with Brad, I wondered what it would be like to be paired
with someone with whom I seemed to have nothing in common.
I had noticed that with other medical students who were
different from me, our only conversation would involve
medicine or gossip — or perhaps nothing at all
— and I worried that Brad and I would fall into that
pattern. I knew that my best chance for doing well in
surgery would involve having a partner whom I could trust.
Success in medical school necessitated bonding with your
classmates to carry you through the tough times.

On arriving at the urology clinic, Brad and I were told
that we would shadow a urologist who was world-renowned for
his work with the prostate gland. He was a faculty member
in the urology department and was cited as one of the top
urologists in the world. His list of patients — which
included kings, princes, presidents, and CEOs — read
like a Who's Who in America and Europe.

Meticulous and precise, Dr. Urology introduced us to his
world. He instructed us on our professional appearance and
decorum. Our white coats were to be dry-cleaned and
starched, not machine- or hand-washed. Our pockets were to
contain nothing more than a pen, and our identification
badges were to be openly displayed on our lapels —
left side only. We were to go into the rooms, introduce
ourselves to the patients, obtain pertinent information
using templates he had already devised, and present this
material to him. He would then enter each room with us,
talk to the patient, corroborate our information, grill us
on our findings, test us to make sure we had done the
necessary readings, and devise a plan of action.

Once we understood our roles, it was time to perform our
duties. Two charts were waiting in the patient bins. I
grabbed the first one, and my colleague took the other. We
went our separate ways.

I entered the patient's room with a bit of apprehension. I
wanted to make a good first impression on both my first
urology patient and Dr. Urology. The patient was Caucasian,
a short and heavyset man. I could see that he was sizing me
up.

I smiled, stretched out my hand, and introduced myself.
Arms folded, he glared at me, looked away, and cursed under
his breath, "What the f — is this? Who the f—
are you? I don't want to talk to you! I f—ing don't
want any affirmative action working on me, let alone a
nigger. What the hell is going on? I'm getting the f—
out of here!" With that, he stormed past me through the
door and down the hall, all the while swearing and mumbling
something about the world being crazy to have let "niggers"
into the medical field.

Years of education, more years of hard work, and
numerous degrees had been rendered meaningless. I had done
all the right things, volunteered at all the right places,
passed all the right exams, represented my family well
— and for what?

I was floored. As I stood in the doorway, anger,
frustration, guilt, and feelings of inadequacy and
helplessness coursed through me in a matter of seconds.
Years of education, more years of hard work, and numerous
degrees had been rendered meaningless. I had done all the
right things, volunteered at all the right places, passed
all the right exams, represented my family well — and
for what? To be called an "affirmative action" and a
"nigger"? To have him suggest that I had no right to be
here, merely because I'm African American? That there's no
possible way any African American could have made it to
medical school without affirmative action? That once in
medical school all students don't have to fulfill the same
requirements, no matter how they were admitted? I knew that
he was wrong, but in the face of such blatant hostility, it
was hard not to doubt myself just a little.

Then my emotions turned to anger. Why should I, simply
because I'm a black man, have to defend myself to him, to
myself, or to anyone else? Suddenly, I wanted to give that
guy a piece of my mind. How dare he insult me! I was torn
between wanting to educate him and knock him on his ass. I
wanted him to know about all the accomplishments that
people of color had managed to achieve in the face of
adversity. I wanted him to know that I had to work twice as
hard as my Caucasian classmates so that no one would ever
judge me on the basis of my skin color. I wanted to say to
him that I was better than he would ever be. I wanted to
tell him how ignorant he was. I wanted to yell in his face
that I wished he had prostate cancer.

I forced myself to calm down when I saw Dr. Urology coming
down the hall toward me, followed by Brad. "What happened?"
they asked. After I told them, Dr. Urology took me by the
arm and steered me toward one of the empty patient rooms.
He apologized for the patient and told me that I should not
let this hinder me in any way. He assured me that he was
not going to welcome that patient ever again into his
office and that he would draft a letter to the dean of
students about the entire experience. He apologized again,
and I told him I was OK.

I wasn't really OK. Even though Dr. Urology had offered
some comforting words, I was upset that the incident had
happened at all. Now I felt even more different than I had
before, and I didn't believe I could trust anyone enough to
reveal my true feelings. I just wanted to make the whole
thing go away. Brad remained quiet and avoided my eyes for
the rest of the clinic. At the end of the day, as we walked
back to the main medical campus, he confided to me that he
was disgusted and upset. He knew about the black-white
disparity in America, but he had never seen it firsthand.
Back home, his peers and family members had joked about
black people in a condescending manner, but he believed
they were thinking about the "lazy" ones they had read
about or seen on television who were sitting on their
porches in the city doing nothing and accepting "free"
handouts from the government. It hadn't occurred to him
that someone could make similar judgments about me, a
hard-working medical student at an elite medical school.

What I really wanted from Brad was automatic understanding
and recognition of how I felt — a reaction I likely
would have received from another person of color. But I
realized that I could use this opportunity to educate Brad
about what it's like to be a member of a minority group: to
be followed by security guards while shopping in department
stores; to be mistaken for an orderly instead of a
doctor-in-training; to lack the same access to role models
or mentors available to white students. As we talked that
afternoon, Brad inadvertently educated me as well, because
I had assumed that someone with his background would not be
willing to learn about racial discrimination.

Despite what had happened earlier, I guess I could say that
that day turned out well after all, but in a way I never
would have anticipated. I think Brad and I each became more
open to confronting our own racial stereotypes. I gained a
new appreciation for Brad, a man with whom I at first
believed I had nothing in common.

I still experience incidents of discrimination.
Fortunately, because of what happened that day, I am now
able to discuss them with my friends and colleagues. After
these discussions, all the issues may not be resolved. But
having a meaningful exchange of thoughts is an important
step in the right direction.